Unconventional
by Queen of Cheesecake
Summary: Luna wanders Europe, brooding on unrequited love for a friend. Warning: references to f/f sex.


I have been wandering for nearly four years now, spending most of my time in the wilderness. It is a lonely life and some days, like today, I feel as though I need a warm bed and a warm pair of arms. Even though I seem to have been almost alone for most of my life, separated from everyone else by the barrier of being Loony Lovegood, I still crave company.

I have found no interesting beasts in the South of France anyway. Eastern Europe was much better; Dad tells me that people were fascinated by my discovery of several new species when I reported my findings. I still haven't found a Snorkack, crumple-horned or otherwise—that was the reason I gave for wandering around Europe.

It is not true, though. There are a number of reasons, and I did not want to share them anyone.

When I left, fresh out of Hogwarts it was to break the spell that _she _had over me. To go back to being the solitary albeit lonely girl I once was. It did not work out quite as I expected: I remember being in a tiny little pub, full of witches in Romania. A woman smiled at me: her hair was as red as a Firecoat Wompkin and it reminded me of _her. _She bought me a glass of wine and told me I was beautiful. When she kissed me it was like I was on fire, and she showed me the ways that women could love one another.

I had thought it was just another thing that made me different from other people, fancying girls. But there are so many other girls just like me, and once I learned this, I began to see them everywhere.

Just look for the little pubs that are full of witches. You might see some who you think are men, but they speak with the voices of women, and I can assure you that beneath their clothes they still have the soft curves of a woman's body and that sweet feminine scent.

The sun is starting to set, and I think that I need to see a girl tonight. I look at my map: Europe, with the wizard communities clearly marked out, a present from Hermione. There is a miniscule pub marked out, on the outskirts of Toulouse: La Femme Étrange. With a name like that, I expect that I will find what I am looking for, so I turn on the spot and for fleeting seconds I am squeezed through the ether towards civilisation.

I gasp in shock. There are women in suits, women in male robes, even women sporting false moustaches. The men are even more surprising in dresses with feathers adorning their heads. I feel, as I often do, like I do not fit in. For the first time in my life, though, it is because I am the only person wearing normal, gender-appropriate clothing. A wizard wrapped in voluminous frilly purple robes winks at me, and I feel utterly confused. I squint once again at the map, yet it marks my place clearly as a small village near Toulouse. I shrug my shoulders and continue round the corner to the pub: the feeling of being abnormal always passes quickly as it is so completely familiar.

And then a shriek of joy, and there are a pair of arms around my neck. As I inhale, my nostrils are filled with the flowery aroma that has haunted my dreams for years and I wonder if I am hallucinating. The owner of the arms loosens her grip and steps back. She is dressed in a too-large black suit, with a white shirt and a red tie, with a bowler hat perched upon her head. I recognise that smile, those pink cheeks dusted with freckles that I could probably count in my mind, that intense gaze. I would recognise it anywhere, for it, too, is always present in my dreams. A tendril of hair falls across her face from beneath the hat, red as the tie.

It is her. Ginny.

Why is it that her brother looks as though he has Spattergroit, yet Ginny's freckles make her even more maddeningly beautiful?

I suppose I have been searching for a girl like her, yet one that I could _have. _I even visited Geneva, which the Italians call Ginevra, but I did not find her there. I met a girl with green eyes and a loud laugh, but she could never make me feel as I do about Ginny. None of them could.

"It's been ages," she exclaims, a grin stretching across her face. It is impossible to describe how I feel right now: what I have been searching for, yet also trying to escape is standing in front of me—I feel joy, but at the same time wish to hide. Seeing those coral lips, lusciously full reminds me of that night at Hogwarts, a lifetime ago.

"Let's go for a drink," she says, and I nod. We turn into the pub I was heading for all along. As I suspected, it is full of women. They are all wearing men's clothes apart from me.

"You're wearing a suit," I say as I plonk our drinks on the table. Red wine for her, pumpkin juice for me. I am already intoxicated enough by Ginny's presence.

She looks down and grins sheepishly, her freckles dancing in the dim light. There are more now: I noticed in a newspaper that she now plays Quidditch professionally for the Holyhead Harpies, so she must spend her days on a broomstick. I saw a picture of the captain of the team. I think she is _like me._

"I've been watching the Quidditch," she replies, "_Les Travestis de Toulouse. _The Toulouse Transvestites." It all becomes clear now; some gimmick of the local Quidditch team. I watch as Ginny, warm in the firelight, removes her jacket. The shirt underneath is fitted, designed for a woman. It hugs her body perfectly, and I force myself not to follow the line of the tie down between her breasts. Next, she removes her bowler hat, shaking her hair free and it cascades down her back and about her face. It is longer than ever, and I wish I could touch it. I remember the way it felt between my fingers as I leant in to kiss her.

As I watch her hands awkwardly patting her hair smooth, I notice a glint on her left hand.

"You're engaged," I say. "To Harry?"

"Of course," she says, and a smile spreads across her face. This is why I can never have her: she loves Harry too much. I should feel jealous, but I do not. I have always known that Harry is her destiny, not me. In fact, I am happy for her. "You're invited to the wedding. I told your dad, but he said it's hard getting in touch with you. Bloody hell, I mean, it's been _years_ since I saw you, not since the last day of school. What have you been doing?"

"Searching for the Crumple-Horned Snorkack. They're very good at hiding, you know. So far I've had no luck, but I've been sending reports back to Dad."

A smile plays across her lips. I have seen it countless times, from Ginny and from others: the Luna's-being-weird smile. They all think I don't notice, but I see everything. I was in Ravenclaw, I'm not stupid. Sometimes I wonder if I would receive that smile if I were to tell people what I am, that I fancy girls instead of boys. I expect it would be more like the face that people pull when I mention Nargles in front of them for the first time: jaw gaping, desperately trying to process what I have just said.

So why can I not tell Ginny that I am the way I am? After all, I have never been afraid to say what is on my mind, no matter how unconventional it may be. I think it is because I know that if I tell her I like women she will _know_ the role she played in it, and she will become very uncomfortable.

"It must be hard keeping in touch, then," she says, and I detect a note of coldness in her voice. She has missed me: it has been four years since we have spoken. "Neville's been asking after you."

Neville. They all thought I should go out with him, so we could all go triple dating. Ron and Hermione, Ginny and Harry, me and Neville. If I had stayed in England, it might have happened, though I would have felt guilty for never being able to give myself to him. He is a great friend, a hero, and has a beautiful smile, but the thought of kissing his stubbly lips and having to make love to him makes my flesh creep. Most of all, he is not Ginny, so I could never love him.

"What's he up to?"

"Same as you. He's wandering round Europe, looking for interesting plants. You two should get together." I must have flinched, given myself away somehow, as she hastily adds, "As companions, I mean. Ron misses you, too. Misses the wisdom you have to give." She smiles wryly, and I know what she means. Ron always found me amusing.

I do miss them. I miss having friends, and I have missed Ginny the most. But I do not trust myself with her: my mind still burns with the memory of our sixth year of Hogwarts, before I was taken away. Harry was away, too, and Ginny and I were alone in the library. She began to weep, and I still remember the way the tears ran down her cheeks, making tracks along the smooth pink skin. I hugged her, to comfort her, as friends should and I was overwhelmed by the scent of her, it was like lilies. I could not help but kiss her, and she tasted as lovely as she smelt, yet tinted with salt. It was I who pulled away first, not her, for it felt like I had been burned. It was then, I think, that I realised I truly loved her. The look of confusion in her eyes told me that she did not feel the same, and we never spoke of it again. From then on, though, it was almost painful to be in her company.

I realise I am staring at her now, my eyes fixated upon her lips.

"You haven't changed a bit," she says, "still daydreaming all the time."

I think I blush a little, and I change the subject. "Did you know that Duckfaced Heffalumps have been proved to exist? I saw them with my own eyes in Serbia."

"Really?" The indulgent smile again.

"My photos are in _The Quibbler_," I say. "I wrote a bit about what I observed of their behaviour. They're carnivorous, which was a bit of a surprise."

"Cool," she says. She continues to talk, maybe she has changed the subject. I do not know, as I am too busy observing the chocolate brownness of her eyes, the way that her face moves as she talks. Against my will, my eyes are drawn downwards, and I notice that behind the tie the buttons are straining slightly at her shirt. I can even see the lace of her bra through the material, and I imagine how it would feel beneath my fingers. "-Luna? Luna?" She waves her hands slightly to catch my attention—not that she needs to, as it has been her who has been the subject of my reverie anyway.

"Sorry," I reply, "I think that my pumpkin juice might have some Pungoes in it. They make it hard to concentrate." I have just completely made this up, but I know she will believe me. People expect this of me.

"Anyway, I was just saying how I realised after all these years how convenient it is to keep your wand behind your ear. Harry takes the piss out of me when I do it round the house though. We're living together now."

Harry is so lucky. I imagine how splendid it would be to come home to Ginny every evening. Even the mundane would be special: cooking dinner together, curling up on the sofa to listen to the wireless and talk about our days, then retiring for an early night except we'd end up going to sleep later than usual because we'd be slowly making love. She will never be mine, though, and Harry is the one who will get all this and her love.

"One day everything you thought was weird about me will turn out to be right," I say, and I wish that were true. Even if she starts to realise that wearing odd socks isn't the end of the world, and she begins to believe in Snorkacks and Blibbering Humdingers, she will never be able to love women as I do. Most women are incapable of it, I have discovered. They may be curious, but they will never truly _understand_.

"Maybe they will," she laughs. I had forgotten how gorgeous her laughter is; it is loud and bubbles up from deep within her, making her face radiant with mirth. Her eyes fall upon the clock. "Fuck!" she exclaims, "is that the time? I was supposed to be at my mum's for dinner an hour ago!"

"Stay here," I say, and I am surprised to hear a pleading note in my voice. It has been too long since I last saw her.

"I can't. It's Percy's birthday. I'm such an idiot. I'm so sorry, Luna."

We both stand, and she spreads out her arms for a hug. I oblige and feel the softness of her breasts against mine. Our eyes meet, and I see a trace of something within her gaze. She is remembering that night at Hogwarts, and her lips twitch involuntarily. I realise that she would not mind a repeat performance.

I could so easily kiss her now. Her lips would feel as delicious as they were last time. Her tongue would poke curiously into my mouth and she would sigh with desire. I would take her upstairs to one of the bedrooms, and we would kiss some more. She would run her inquisitive hands over my body then fumble at the buttons of my robes. As a passionate woman, I expect she would kiss fiercely, digging her nails into my arms, biting at my lips. In turn, I would loosen her tie, though not remove it, not yet. It would be the last to come off, I think. I can almost hear the rustle of her trousers falling to the floor, I can almost feel her nipple between my lips—they would be pink, I think, like her lips. I would show her how to touch me, how to kiss me, and I would show her pleasure beyond her imagination.

Then in the morning, she would rise and return to Harry, feeling guilty and horribly confused.

This is why I do not kiss her. She is one of those women who may be curious, but she is not _like me._ She loves Harry, and I cannot begrudge her that. Despite everything, I really do think that they are good together. So I can do nothing to satisfy my own desire, even though every fibre of my body is screaming out to plant my lips upon hers. I could not live with the guilt of ruining her relationship due to my own desire.

She kisses my cheek, her mouth cool upon my skin. It feels like a sharp jolt; once I touched a Muggle device, a box with pictures moving inside it, and it crackled and tingled like my face does now. Then she says, "Promise me you'll send me an owl or two, let me know how you're doing."

And I will, I think, as I watch her step into the fireplace and vanish back to her family. I have passed my test. I _can _be trusted with Ginny. Relief floods me; I can contact my friends again without concern that my passion will take over. Maybe one day my love for her and my desires will be quenched. Maybe one day I will tell everyone what I truly am. Maybe one day everything can be like it was. I hope so.

I am lonely, still, though. Seeing Ginny has set my body on fire; I can feel my flushed skin hot within my clothes, and I almost admonish myself for not being more selfish. But I did the right thing.

The barmaid winks at me. She is plump with dark curls falling in ringlets about her face.

She is not Ginny; no girl is. But tonight she will be mine.


End file.
